


space hollowed out of absence

by merulanoir



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't copy to another site, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 22:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19935706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir
Summary: Regis didn't have enough time to tell Geralt all the things he needed to hear.He didn't know it would end like this. He didn't know it wouldn't end.Some wishes, desperate and unclear, are stronger than death.





	space hollowed out of absence

**Author's Note:**

> This fic got away from me, but what else is new? If you suspect something here is a metaphor or a metonym, you have two options: either accept that this story is a cacophony in itself, or look the other way. Both are equally good options.
> 
> Beta by my trusted friends, [Dor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean) and [Kael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale/pseuds/kaeltale) (the latter basically wrote the summary for me as well.) Thank you for listening to me rant about poetry and porn, often at the same time. <3
> 
> Title is a direct quote from [this poem called The Chromatic Levels](http://nordicvoices.blogspot.com/2011/04/chromatic-levels.html) (or An Introduction to the Breaking of Captive Form) by Eeva-Liisa Manner.

They ride towards Tesham Mutna in almost total silence. Regis could hear and smell Beauclair behind them, flames and desperate fear; it is like a canvas he’s trapped in, his inner turmoil mirroring the reality of the night. The air is still, and they cut through it as they go.

Sylvia Anna rides between him and Geralt. Her back is ramrod straight and stiff, and her black hair is glossy under the moonlight. She is so unlike her sister; they remind him of the old dichotomy, the whore and the virgin, how women in fine literature are either one of them. It simplifies human nature into something that can be wholly accepted or rejected.

Regis smells her, too, something sickly sweet he suspects is a remnant from the fairytale land Geralt retrieved her from. Regis is dying to hear what such an extensive illusion was like, but the time isn’t right for such questions.

 _Maybe later._ It is a wistful thought, and Regis indulges only for a few seconds before banishing it. Nothing is guaranteed tonight, not with Dettlaff’s threat unfolding right at this very moment. 

“What is this place?” Syanna asks when Tesham Mutna starts to loom before them. Regis finally looks up, and the sight of those crumbling walls sends a chill down his spine. The last time he came here with Geralt, he was forced to remember things he’d spent three centuries trying to bury; they haunt his dreams, demand closure, and Regis doesn’t have the faintest idea how he might manage that.

“An old vampire fortress,” Geralt says. The witcher looks back and exchanges a look with Regis. _I’ve got your back,_ it says. Or perhaps, _we’re in really big trouble, my friend._

Regis is sorry Geralt was dragged into this. His friend almost never complains, but Regis senses a shadow of weariness clinging to him. Geralt has been trapped in a plot of Syanna’s making, and now Regis has made everything infinitely more complicated. He insisted, begged Geralt to antagonize Anna Henrietta and kidnap her sister. The alternative scared him; forcing Geralt into the presence of the unseen elder drapes a cold hand over his heart.

Guilt makes Regis swallow heavily. Geralt deserves rest, and Regis knows the chain of events they have set in motion would most likely destroy the chance of the witcher retiring to the first home he has ever owned.

They walk up the mossy steps together, with Syanna trailing after them. Regis feels something dark hovering over himself, and nothing he does drives it away; it feels like desperation, mixed with the prickling of anxiety, and an unnameable feeling that is always present when he looks at Geralt and feels like he couldn’t possibly match the devotion the witcher shows his friends. Regis doesn’t know when and how he ended up opening himself so wide, showing the witcher almost everything there was to see. Even more baffling is Geralt’s continuous willingness to let Regis in.

Not for the first time, Regis regrets leaving Fen Carn with the hansa. It was a whim, he was lonely, and the ragtag group intrigued him; the most fascinating of them all was the surly, white-haired witcher. Regis still remembers how his mind came alive at the sight of him, and how ardently he had wanted to know who Geralt of Rivia was.

Geralt was so much more than Regis had expected. Still is.

“Hey, you alright?”

Regis looks away from the burning city, and meets Geralt’s gaze. Witchers are supposedly skilled at hiding their emotions, but Regis has always been able to read Geralt like an open book; there is a hidden expressiveness to his amber eyes that always shines like a beacon. Right now the witcher looks careworn.

“I am.” Regis turns away from Beauclair. He can do nothing right now. “And how about you, my friend?”

Geralt shrugs. He breaks eye contact and drags a hand down his face. “Something about this isn’t right,” he says.

“Almost nothing,” Regis sighs.

“Too true.” Geralt’s voice is dry, but Regis feels a stab of fondness at the sight of his smile.

“Say, what would you do if we managed to solve this mess?” Regis doesn’t know what makes him ask it, but Geralt doesn’t seem to mind. He grins, lopsided and weary.

“Maybe I’d finally retire.”

“A witcher turned vintner,” Regis muses. “Would a certain sorceress be joining you, perchance?”

He expects Geralt to quip something back, or to laugh with that embarrassed expression he often wears when people bring up Dandelion’s ballads, but he is mistaken. Geralt’s face turns dark and he looks away. An uncertainty creeps in and Regis takes half a step closer before forcing himself to stay still.

“We...broke the spell,” Geralt says in a quiet voice.

Regis gapes. One steady thing in his friend has been the magic binding him to Yennefer of Vengerberg, and now that mystery is gone? As the silence stretches, Geralt takes pity on his blunder.

“It was her idea. We found a new djinn and—well, it doesn’t matter. It’s gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Regis says. His gut twists, and he wonders why there is something clawing at him all of a sudden. He looks at Geralt, _looks_ at him, and that which has always remained nameless and not looked upon is forcing its way to daylight.

Geralt shrugs again. He glances at Regis, with an unreadable expression.

“Could you stay, after?”

The new, unexplainable urgency gets more intense. Regis opens his mouth, but right then his senses flare up. He whirls around, and his slow heart almost stops in his chest. He has been so focused on Geralt he missed the red mist.

Dettlaff, when he materializes, is an emblem of grief. Regis has never seen him so furious, and underneath it all he can feel a chasm opening. There is only darkness inside it. Before he can do anything, move, prevent the cataclysm, Dettlaff attacks.

Sylvia Anna screams, and then her voice vanishes, like someone cut the scream with a knife. A cloud of brightly-colored flowers swirl up, and Dettlaff almost stumbles when his claws meet only thin air instead of the human woman. For a second the rage vanishes as uncertainty takes its place. The moment is gone before Regis can force his way in through the crack it created.

Dettlaff’s pale eyes track the floating flowers, and then he looks up to where Regis is standing with Geralt. Time freezes in that moment, but Regis feels everything; Dettlaff’s agonized fury, with its flames licking at his sanity. 

“You played me for a fool, witcher.”

Geralt’s eyes are wide, and Regis knows, deep in his bones that the witcher had not planned this. He had not known that Sylvia Anna had a way to escape.

“You will die for that.”

At first, Regis feels nothing. Then his breath catches in his throat, because it is like Stygga all over again; Geralt is in danger, and Regis’ mind goes quiet except for a shrill alarm that consumes him. He has to protect Geralt—like Vilgefortz, so is Dettlaff an opponent Geralt will not defeat alone. 

Dettlaff leaps, and Regis forces himself out of his stupor. His claws hit his brother’s right as Geralt shoots out of the way, silver flashing in the stillness of the hot night. They scramble apart, snarling and frantic.

“No— Wait!” Regis gasps, but Dettlaff has closed himself off. Their bond is cold and dead, and Regis knows this is a fight none of them can win.

The end of everything comes much quicker than he expects. He knows Geralt is an excellent fighter, one who can give even a higher vampire a great deal of trouble, but Dettlaff isn’t like the rest of his brethren. He is the packmaster, and tonight he has invoked that right in its most powerful form.

Regis is thrown through a stone wall, and he barely feels his arm bones break, because right when he lands he hears a sickening crunch, followed by a sword clattering to the ground. A ragged gasp follows, air rattling through torn lungs. Wet, painful.

Regis fights the pain and makes his limbs work, scrambling to his feet. He comes to a halt when he smells the mutated blood, and then forces himself to take the final steps.

Dettlaff lowers Geralt to the ground almost gently. There is a trace of respect in it, but Regis barely sees his brother. His eyes fix on the hazy, golden gaze that seeks him out. His knees buckle, and he doesn’t feel himself hit the stones. He crawls to Geralt, scraping his fingers against splinters, and only then he remembers to breathe.

“ _Regis._ ” Geralt’s voice is barely there. His hand twitches, and Regis gathers him closer, hugging the witcher against his chest. His clothes become wet and warm, and with every crimson pulse Regis feels Geralt slip away. Too soon. He should have done something to prevent all this.

“I’m so sorry,” Regis whispers. Geralt blinks slowly and makes a face as something wet falls on his forehead.

Regis knows he is crying, but he doesn’t have the energy to care. The only thing he can feel is something great and abyssal preparing to take him, slipping ever closer as Geralt grows pale and pliant.

“Hey,” the witcher whispers. His lips twitch into a weak smile. “’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Regis gasps. He is breaking. His chest is being crushed between two warring feelings, the wish to do something, _anything_ , and the poisonous temptation to beg Dettlaff to send him to the other side as well.

 _I can’t lose you, I still have all those things I never told you._ Regis holds Geralt closer, and underneath the blood he smells like leather and home.

“I wanted to tell you—”

Geralt stops breathing right then and leaves his last words unfinished, and a sob tears free from Regis’ chest. Bottomless dread slams into him and he shouts, but no audible sound comes out. His throat is raw when he is finally able to stop. Shadow falls over him as he tries to draw in enough air, but it is as heavy as an entire ocean, and as cold. 

His mind is such a scattered chaos he never hears Dettlaff approach. The man Regis called brother crouches down and then stills.

“You never told me.”

Regis doesn’t dare open his eyes, doesn’t want to lift his face from the bloody, white hair. 

“Had you ever even admitted it to yourself?”

Regis gasps for breath. He is going to fall apart. Nothing can make this better ever again. There are no longer any lights in the echoing darkness that always laps at his heart.

“I—” Dettlaff begins, and then falls silent. Distantly Regis wonders whether he was about to apologize.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, cradling the broken body that had once been the best friend anyone could have hoped for; the shell of a warm light, a splendid heart. An accidentally nurtured hope that caught fire only a few moments ago, and then went out.

When Regis opens his eyes, he is alone, his bond with Dettlaff silent as a grave. He can’t remember whether he has ever felt so alone. Without thinking, he strips off his glove. His claw extends, and very slowly, Regis presses the sharp edge against his own jugular.

A hand shoots out and grasps his wrist, hard.

“What are you doing?” Dettlaff hisses. There is shock in his voice, and Regis knows he is scared.

“He deserves this,” Regis whispers. His voice is thin and emotionless, in a sharp juxtaposition to the roiling horror inside him. “He deserves to be honored like one of my own.”

Dettlaff doesn’t let him go. “That is not the way,” he says in a low, disbelieving tone. “That is not how you honor a dead _friend_. You are not making any sense.”

“Nothing about this does,” Regis says, still refusing to meet his eyes.

“You were not— He is not— _it won’t work._ ”

“Let me go.”

Dettlaff’s fingers loosen and then withdraw. His breathing is shallow. 

“Regis,” he rasps. There are tears in his voice now. “Don’t do this.”

Regis shakes his head. He feels the tip of his claw dig deeper, and when blood starts to bead on his skin, Dettlaff stumbles away. Panic and despair swirl around them both.

 _Nothing about this has ever any made sense,_ Regis thinks as he holds Geralt closer. _There were so many things I wanted to say to you, and now I have but this one thing I can do to show what you mean to me._

***

_He thinks he dies._

_He goes to a dark place where nothing echoes. It’s dull and lifeless, it doesn’t hold his interest. There is a distant kind of pain that comes and goes, and in the end he gives up trying to make any sense of it. He is very tired and something is missing. He can’t remember what it is, but it’s missing now, and its absence hurts._

_He doesn’t know how long he spends in the dark place, but gradually he becomes aware of a distant voice. It calls to him, so Geralt starts walking towards it. It could be something sinister, but what else is he going to do?_

_The world tilts and sways, and then there is light and shape to things. He has to cover his eyes, because it’s too bright._

_He doesn’t register that the unease is melting away until someone gasps and then there are hands holding him._

_“Geralt.”_

_How could anyone utter his name like a damned prayer?_

_Geralt opens his eyes, and Regis is there. His lip trembles and he looks distraught._

_“Regis?” His voice is hoarse, like he’s spent a long time without using it._

_“You died,” Regis whispers. He is seconds away from crying, and the sight makes Geralt reach out, pull Regis closer. The vampire doesn’t resist; he wraps his arms around Geralt and buries his face in his neck, breath catching._

_“I’m here.” Geralt feels the last of the unease slip away. If he only can make Regis calm down and smile again, it’s all going to be alright, he knows it._

_“I’m here now, shh.”_

_Regis’ chest heaves as he tries and fails to fight back the cresting panic. When his knees give out, Geralt lowers them both to the ground—no, floor, they’re in a house that looks distantly familiar—and strokes his hair as he holds the vampire against himself._

_Regis feels so safe. Geralt doesn’t know if it’s always been like this, or if whatever he’s gone through has changed something, but he doesn’t really care. He wants to hold Regis like this, and it’s all that matters. The vampire is warm and solid, and he fits in his arms perfectly._

_“What happened?” Geralt asks when Regis calms down a bit. The vampire pulls back enough to meet his eyes._

_“Dettlaff—” he begins, and then can’t go on. Panic rises again and Geralt presses his forehead against Regis’._

_“I’m here. We’re both here.”_

_“I had to do something, you were gone, and—”_

_Geralt doesn’t know what Regis has done, but he doesn’t really care. He just wants to stay like this, because touching Regis is comforting, and as long as he can feel the crawling heartbeat against his fingertips, they’re both going to be fine._

_“Where are we?” Geralt asks after a long silence. He looks around, but apart from the vague feeling that he knows this place he gets nothing._

_Regis looks around. He looks confused._

_“Home,” he simply says._

_Geralt opens his mouth, but the world lurches, and then his head spins too fast. Vertigo slams into him and the floor is gone, Regis is gone, there is nothing to hold on to. He closes his eyes and tries to ride it out, but it overwhelms him; up is down, gravity makes no sense, and then—_

He bolts upright and the next thing he knows is splitting, ripping pain. His chest is hot and wet with it, and a strangled sound escapes his cracked lips.

“ _No!_ Don’t move.”

Geralt’s instincts tell him to fight back, but the pain is overwhelming. For a few seconds he is certain he will just faint—die—again, but as gentle hands ease him back down consciousness clings on in that stubborn, witcher way. He is gasping for breath, and the pain isn’t receding at all. Cold sweat beads on his upper lip, and he lacks even the strength to wipe it away.

Geralt realizes his eyes have been open all the time, but the pain has been too strong for visuals to register. Once all movement ceases he begins to understand where he is; it is the bedroom in Corvo Bianco. His bedroom.

“Please don’t move. Drink this.” Geralt’s eyes snap to the speaker, and the relief he feels is the first good thing. Regis is holding a vial, waiting for him to return to his senses. Once Geralt’s eyes focus, the vampire gives him a thin smile and brings the vial to his lips.

Geralt forces the bitter liquid down. It burns his throat, but it is only one thread in what feels a massive tangle of pain. It centers on his chest, spreading tendrils everywhere.

“What happened?” Geralt whispers. The room sways. He suspects Regis has just drugged him up well and good, because his head is already growing foggy. In small increments, the pain starts to dull. It never goes away, but it takes a step back and allows him to think.

“You almost died. Do you know where you are?” Regis’ voice is clipped, and his eyes demand answers. Geralt blinks, and there is a hazy, odd thread of memory trying to unfurl…

“Geralt? Answer me.”

Geralt swallows with some difficulty. “Corvo Bianco.”

Regis nods, and relaxes just enough for Geralt to take note. As he busies himself with bandages and a bottle that smells like alcohol mixed with herbs, Geralt watches him closely. Regis is healed, but his face is shut off.

The silence stretches, and Geralt wants to ask questions but there is hardness in the lines of Regis’ face, and Geralt wishes it would disappear. His friend has rarely looked so severe. Finally Regis starts to tear away the bandages that cover him from neck to hips. A lot of the strips of cloth he removes have blood on them, most of it bright and red.

Geralt frowns. The pain is finally receding, enough for him to grope for memories.

He recalls Tesham Mutna. Sylvia Anna vanishing in a cloud of flowers. And then…

“Where is Dettlaff?” he asks. He isn’t sure, but Regis seems to draw in on himself.

“He is gone. For good, I imagine.”

The last of the bandages come off, and Regis turns away to rummage through a chest that has been pulled right next to the bed.

“Gone? What’s that mean?”

Regis doesn’t answer immediately. He pulls out gauze and strips of linen, and when his hands reach for Geralt again, the witcher finally looks down at the wounds. His shallow breath catches.

 _Wounds_ is an understatement, if he has ever made one. There is a mass of healing flesh, so torn and mangled it looks like something a fiend chewed and then spat out. Geralt feels his eyes go wide, a distant sort of horror trickling through the haze of the medicine. His stomach turns.

He should be dead.

“Don’t talk.”

Geralt looks up, and meets Regis’ severe gaze. The vampire pins him down with it, until protests all but die away.

“You’ll just hurt yourself more.”

Geralt finally closes his mouth. He watches in silence as Regis hides away the carnage. It’s easier to breathe once the last of the mutilated flesh disappears from view. He can pretend he didn’t see it. The vampire looks serious, but there is an undercurrent of something Geralt can’t put his finger on. Regis’ moods have always been something of a mystery to him, but right now the vampire feels almost angry. At him, or something else, he can’t tell.

“You need to sleep.” Regis looks away, avoiding Geralt’s gaze. There is a thin slip of sky visible through a crack in the curtains, and it is glowing red. Evening, Geralt guesses.

“How long have I been here? What happened to Syanna?”

Regis glances at him, but stands up and walks to the window.

“She was transported back to the palace. The duchess is holding her imprisoned, awaiting trial.” He is silent for a few heartbeats, and then draws in a breath. “You have been unconscious for five days.”

Geralt tries to remember what happened at Tesham Mutna, but it’s a jumble of panic and pain. His mind shies away from it. He leaves it be for now, and focuses on Regis. 

“The duchess will want to question you. The ducal guard has been visiting every day.” Regis’ voice is carefully controlled. It is like him, and at the same time something nags at Geralt. Regis is too still, as if controlling every single one of his movements with the care mustered up during his infinitely prolonged existence.

“Lemme guess, she’s angry I didn’t kill—” Geralt begins, but before he can even blink, Regis is standing too close and his hand shoots out to cover his mouth.

Normally Geralt would flinch and draw back, create some distance. He hates it when he gets crowded on like that. Now, however, he just stares up at Regis, who glares at him. His black eyes have deep shadows under them.

“Don’t speak,” Regis hisses. His hand remains where it is, and Geralt smells his skin. It’s not the herbal aroma, but a more natural thing; it must be Regis’ own scent. He has never smelled it before, and it shouldn’t feel like a profound thing but it does.

Geralt frowns. He wants to argue, but the drug is properly kicking in. The edges of the room begin to dull, and his eyelids feel heavier by the second. When Regis withdraws his hand, Geralt grimaces.

“You’ve got some explaining to do.” The words come out slurred, and then the reality slips away as sleep takes him.

***

_Light spills through the windows. It makes the room glow gently. Everything is clean and smells fresh, as if someone has walked through the rooms with an armful of wildflowers just a moment ago._

_Geralt leans back on the bed. He tries to blink away the haze of sleep, but everything stays as it is; as if a few steps removed from what is real. It’s pleasant._

_“Stop fighting it,” an amused voice drifts from his right. Geralt stops scowling at the bed and looks up. Regis meets his eyes with a smile._

_“You are going to give yourself a headache if you keep frowning like that.” The vampire sits down next to him, almost close enough to touch, and Geralt sighs as he leans back against the pillows._

_“I don’t understand.”_

_Regis hums. He doesn’t say anything, but Geralt’s mind calms down. Suddenly he can’t recall what he was so worried about._

_“Where are we?” he asks instead. The room looks so familiar, but he can’t place it. The scenery outside is foreign as well._

_“Home.” Regis smiles again._

_Geralt looks at him, but it’s just Regis, just as he remembers the vampire. Graying hair and laughing eyes, as achingly dear as ever._

_The last observation makes Geralt pause. Has he ever thought of Regis in those terms? His chest feels warm with it, and he wants to do something. He wants to—understand, for a lack of a better word._

_“Come here.” Regis scoots closer and, before Geralt has the time to react, an arm sneaks around his shoulders. Regis tugs him closer, until Geralt’s head is resting on his shoulder. Then he goes still and relaxed, only letting out a satisfied huff._

_“What are you doing?” Geralt asks. He could move away; Regis isn’t holding him by force. It’s almost gentle, the way his fingers curls into the fabric of Geralt’s shirt. Without prompting, Geralt feels some tension yield._

_“Holding you,” Regis says in a quiet voice. “I can stop.”_

_“No, don’t,” Geralt says before he can think of anything else. He can’t recall if they normally do this, but right now he doesn’t want to leave the embrace. Regis smells safe, and Geralt knows he is the stronger one of them._

_Regis lets his head rest against Geralt’s. He buries his nose into the white hair and draws in a deep breath._

_“I like having you here,” he whispers. “It may not be real, but it means something.”_

_“Not real?” Geralt asks. He opens his eyes, and can’t recall when he closed them. Regis’ presence is lulling him into a pleasant doze. The vampire’s fingers twitch, and then they move to his hair and start stroking. It feels too good._

_“I don’t know what’s real,” Regis finally says._

_Geralt shrugs and moves just a bit closer. He wants to feel Regis. It’s an odd thought, but it comes and goes, and leaves only the intent. He moves his hand, eyes closed again, until he finds Regis’ free hand. He doesn’t think about it, only winds their fingers together._

_“Stay here,” Geralt murmurs. “Stay with me.”_

_Regis smiles. Geralt feels it where his lips rest against his forehead._

_***_

Waking comes slower, this time. Geralt feels the edges of the pain, and remembers to stay still. His breath stutters as he allows the reality to creep closer. By gods, he really should have died. Anything would be better than this. He feels like he has been cleaved in half.

“Master Geralt, can you hear me?”

Geralt blinks, and the room swims into view. B.B. is watching him with a deep, worried frown. He stands a few steps away, as if ready to move back should Geralt lash out.

Did Regis warn him?

“Hey B.B.,” Geralt says. His voice is hoarse. “How are we doin’?”

His majordomo breathes a sigh of relief. He steps closer and presents a vial. “I was left with instructions. You need to take this medicine.”

Geralt accepts the vial with a weak hand. His left arm is a mass of shooting pain, but the right one moves enough for him to drink the liquid. This one is bitter, too, but it doesn’t burn his throat.

“Regis leave that?” he asks when the contents are gone. There is no sudden blurring of the world this time, and he guesses the stronger stuff is no longer available, or needed.

“He did,” B.B. confirms as he pulls up a chair and sits down. He is restless; it doesn’t look like he will stay long. “He told me he would be visiting later, after the ducal guard have conducted their business.”

Geralt blinks, and then he hears it. There is the distinct creak and clink that comes from full-plate armor, coming from the foyer. He focuses his ears, and counts five men. He doesn’t know how it makes him feel, because apprehension mixes in with something darker just then.

B.B. scowls. “I have been telling and telling them you are not in any state to see them, but they just won’t listen any longer. The duchess is adamant on hearing what you have to say.”

Geralt stifles a groan. “Great.” He gropes back, but the events at Tesham Mutna refuse to come back. There is only a seething shadow, and his mind recoils from touching that. The last clear thing he can remember is Sylvia Anna vanishing, and Dettlaff looking at him with rage.

He should be dead, and he isn’t, and Geralt almost asks about it when the door opens.

Damien de la Tour’s face is healing, but it looks almost as bad as Geralt’s chest. Their eyes meet, and Geralt feels a bolt of shame shoot through him. He betrayed Damien when he snuck Syanna out of the Palace. Right after the man confessed he had begun to trust him.

“Geralt!” de la Tour exclaims. He crosses the room in long strides and crouches by the bed. “By the gods, you look half-dead!”

Geralt tries to come up with anything, but before he can begin to apologize, he realizes Damien doesn’t look furious. If anything, he is worried. The wound is angry and red, and Damien clearly avoids emoting with his usual Toussaintous flair.

“Kinda feel like it,” Geralt finally gets out, and the captain grins in relief. The expression pulls at the damage on his cheek, and he grimaces.

“Ah, it seems neither of us came out of this mess without something to remember it by,” Damien says with a measured laugh. He claims the seat B.B. had just vacated, and Geralt rakes his brain to understand. Why isn’t de la Tour demanding explanations?

“I have to say, witcher, you really scared us,” Damien says when Geralt doesn’t continue on the topic. “For a while, I really thought you had smuggled Sylvia Anna out of the palace. To be quite honest with you, I was ready to bloody my blade when I thought you had betrayed me.”

Geralt nods. He doesn’t want to speak yet, because something has happened, and he has to keep up the appearance that he knows exactly what they are talking about. His head feels slow and stupid.

Damien doesn’t mind his silence. He scratches his uninjured cheek idly and then smiles. “But after master Regis explained it was all a con you had cooked up with the duquessa, I had to admit it was rather clever. The Beast didn’t suspect a thing.”

Geralt stares, but when Damien grins he forces a smile. His chest is aching viciously.

“How’s the city recovering?” Geralt finally asks to direct the conversation away from the perilous topic. He needs to interrogate Regis before he mucks this up. His act of misleading works, because Damien’s face darkens.

“Poorly. People are afraid. We lost so many that night.” He sighs and looks out of the window. Afternoon light is dull and grey, as if preceding listless rain. “Even with the Beast dead, everyone is on tenterhooks.”

De la Tour says it in passing, but Geralt’s breath freezes in his throat. He fights to break through it, but the shadow rises inside his head and claims all space in seconds. It dims the light around him, and his chest grows tight with fear.

 _It didn’t go like that,_ he wants to say. _I should be dead. I died. I died and something went wrong._

He is unable to utter a word. His heart beats out a tattoo inside his chest, which feels split open again. Cold sweat covers his body in seconds, and the shadow looms over him—

The door bangs open, and Regis steps in. He is pale, but his eyes are so intense Geralt can’t do anything but focus on them. The vampire meets his gaze without a blink, commanding his fraying attention. The rest of the room begins to slip away and the shadow grows bigger, blotting out light.

 _I died,_ he thinks, over and over again.

“He is not well,” a distant voice says. Regis. “You ought to continue this discussion some other day.”

Geralt’s head swims for the lack of oxygen. The last thing he hears is Damien’s worried voice.

***

_Geralt blinks, but the light is harsh and blue. It’s night, and when he looks around, the room is washed out. He hovers at the door, unable to remember whether he was coming or going. He is so damn tired, and something hurts. It’s the same house again, but it doesn’t feel as welcoming now. He feels like he shouldn’t be here._

_Geralt sags against the doorframe, but then there are hands pressing against his back. His instincts stay quiet, and as the hands slip up to hold him by the shoulders, he just waits. Two breaths synchronize in the still quiet._

_“You are not well.”_

_Geralt shakes his head. Regis sounds worried, and Geralt wants to reassure him. Only, he is currently too tired and sad to do that. The shadow hovers over him, and Geralt fears what it will take if he allows it to stake its claim._

_“Something’s not right.”_

_Regis steps closer and presses his forehead against his back. They stay there, breathing in and out, the house silent around them. There are no sounds coming from the outside; no nightbird calls, or crickets, no wind. It’s absolute stillness, and in turn it doesn’t feel alive._

_“I feel it too,” Regis finally says. Geralt turns around, and Regis takes his hands when he does. The vampire looks tired, too._

_“Something happened, earlier,” Geralt mutters. He tries to reach back to what is bothering him, but doing so makes the pain grow. Regis sees his face tighten, and his hand reaches to cup his cheek. His fingers are cool._

_“Don’t hurt yourself,” Regis says. He frowns. “We will get to the bottom of this, but I can’t watch you hurting.”_

_Geralt leans into the touch. He wants to, and there isn’t a single reason why he shouldn’t. Regis’ thumb brushes his cheek, and without a warning he steps closer. When their chests press together Regis exhales shakily._

_“I’m sorry, I—” he whispers, but before he can back away Geralt grips him by the waist. Regis stills, brows high and eyes worried._

_Geralt tries to force the hurt away, but it rises and falls as he breathes. It makes focusing difficult. Regis feels like the only stable thing. The house gives an ominous creak. It comes from deep within the structure._

_“I think I died,” Geralt finally says. He feels the floor shudder under his feet as he says the words. “I should have.”_

_Before he can say anything else, Regis lets out a desperate growl. He backs him into a wall, taking them away from the threshold and deeper into the house. The hesitation is gone, and in its place is something fierce. The vampire forces Geralt to meet his gaze._

_“You didn’t die,” Regis says. “You did not.”_

_Geralt closes his eyes again. It’s night, but it shouldn’t be this dark, or cold. His chest hurts._

_He feels Regis lean closer, and his hands tighten where they hold his face. “You’re here.” There is a note of desperation in his voice._

_Geralt tries to shake his head, but Regis doesn’t let him. They are pressed close together, and Regis is unyielding where Geralt is holding him. The floor gives another tremor under their feet, this one stronger._

_“Don’t leave me now.”_

_Geralt blinks his eyes open, because he has never heard Regis sound like that: heartbroken. The black eyes Geralt likes so much are bottomless, and the vampire’s breath comes in uneven puffs that ghost over his face._

_“Please,” Regis gasps._

_Geralt closes the distance and kisses Regis. There is a moment of stillness, and then the world rights itself. The air clears as the shadow leaves, and Regis holds him still closer as his lips part. Geralt shivers as Regis kisses back, and even when he has his eyes closed he can tell the light softens and loses the hard edges. Regis kisses carefully, holding back just enough to track every minute clue Geralt’s body is giving him; the wish to abandon caution hangs over every movement._

_He pulls back for a bit, and Regis blinks. His mouth is hanging open, lips well-kissed. Geralt wants to do it again. He needs to feel Regis._

_“Please,” Geralt says, and Regis stifles a moan as he leans back in._

_***_

Geralt dreams of fire, and he swears he can still smell blood and smoke when he finally forces his mind to wakefulness. He lies completely still for a long while. He lets his mind reorient itself, looking at the ceiling in silence.

B.B. comes in at some point. His majordomo helps him to sit up, and even though his chest feels like it might just collapse in on itself, Geralt forces himself to stay put. He feels like he has been lying down for ages. He is starving, and forcing some real food down is grounding.

After B.B. leaves to attend to his other duties, Geralt gives up and lies back down. He is exhausted again. There is a vial on the table, but it is too far away, and Geralt hates the idea of more drugged sleep. He tries to meditate, but it stays uneven and fitful. Light changes gradually, going from midmorning yellow to the smooth orange of approaching evening.

He blinks his eyes open when the door creaks. Geralt feels a rush of relief when Regis steps in and closes the door.

“Hey,” Geralt says. He wants to sit up again, but he knows he needs help for that. 

Regis pushes a chair closer and sits down. He looks less harried.

“How are you?” he asks. His eyes are alert and sharp, but he is smiling.

Geralt shrugs weakly. “So and so.” Something feels...off, but he can’t pinpoint what it is.

“I came to check on your wounds,” Regis says with that same smile. “The ducal guard agreed to let you heal for now, but I suspect Anna Henrietta will summon you when you have healed enough to ride a carriage.” He laughs when Geralt makes a face. 

“You spun some tale,” Geralt grunts. “I expected to get thrown in jail, but Damien seems to think we had some secret plot in place.”

Regis looks away as his smile falls. His face darkens. “You were wounded. I had to make do.”

Geralt’s hand shoots out, and before he understands the impulse it covers Regis’. The vampire goes stiff. Geralt refuses to back off.

“I’m not accusing you,” Geralt says. He feels off-balance, and it disturbs him badly. Regis looks at him with a wary expression. “Seems like you saved us all in the end.”

Regis shakes his hand off as he stands up and walks to the window. Geralt watches his shoulders creep higher, and as the silence stretches he fears he has somehow misunderstood everything. Maybe Regis is angry with him, after all.

Geralt waits. He wants answers, but the silence is too heavy; something in it tells him that pushing will only do more damage. So he watches Regis, who stares out into the darkening evening. It’s stifling, and Geralt’s chest is hurting again. The wounds feel raw, but it’s more specific. There is a tightness inside his broken body.

“It’s done now,” Regis finally says. His voice is flat. “Nothing to it.” He turns around, but doesn’t come closer.

“At least we both made it,” Geralt says. He remembers Stygga, and apparently Regis does too; the vampire’s eyes shutter but there is pain lurking just out of sight. Geralt feels it. He regrets that their friendship is wrought from trouble and violence. Regis, if anyone, deserves a life of routine and friendly faces, not whatever Geralt always drags him into.

“Are you okay?” Geralt finally asks when it becomes unbearable. It is unusual for him to feel awkward like this, especially with Regis. And when he allows himself to think about it, it’s unusual for Regis to be so quiet, or refuse to meet his eyes.

“I’ll live.” Regis says. He looks down at his hands and then forces them to release the grip on the strap of the satchel. “I’m more worried about you.”

Geralt sighs, more frustration than any real ire. He tries to sit up, out of reflex to feel more in control, but a hot stab of pain makes him gasp.

Regis is standing over him in a flash. He looks almost surprised at his own reaction, pushing Geralt to lie still. His hands are careful, but as their eyes finally meet properly, Geralt feels the world tilt.

Something is—different. His gaze falls to Regis’ mouth and then flicks back to his eyes, and he feels something frantic claw at the back of his head as it struggles towards the surface of his thoughts. He doesn’t know if he wants to pull away or get closer, and those impulses war each other inside him.

Meanwhile Regis is frozen. He stares at Geralt with something that looks like mounting alarm. It’s a minute shift, but Geralt tracks it unerringly; widening eyes and lips pressing thinner. His fingers tighten, until his grip is hard enough to bruise.

The next moment he is swirling mist. Geralt makes a distressed sound before he can bite it back, and Regis materializes at the far end of the room. What looks like anxiety makes him hunch, but his mouth is set in a stubborn line.

“What was that?” Geralt asks. He can’t decide how he feels. The shadow is back, but it stays just enough at bay that he can still think.

Regis opens his mouth and then closes it again. Geralt watches his friend struggle to form words, and he burns to reach out. It should feel confusing, but he elects to ignore it for now. He hates how agitated Regis looks.

“Forgive me,” Regis finally rasps. He refuses to meet Geralt’s eyes.

“ _Regis_ ,” Geralt bites out. “Come on.” He is hurting again, too much movement. And he’s so tired of hurting. 

Regis casts a glance at him, but doesn’t come closer. His face is shut off. “I will leave more medicine for you.” With that, he turns to mist and is gone in seconds. Geralt stares as the glimmers die away, at first disbelieving and then more than a little angry.

Sleep is slow to come, because apart from the pain, he aches with something more fragile. He fears Regis won’t return.

***

_“Geralt—” Regis’ voice breaks and before Geralt can register what happens the vampire is in his space. His arms come up and wrap around Regis easily. Bright light spills on the floor of the house they are in, and it feels like early morning. A window is open, and it smells of spring, of all things._

_“Please, I’m sorry,” Regis murmurs into his shirt. “I’m sorry.”_

_“Shh,” Geralt soothes the alarm. He hurts, but it is slipping away. He just wants Regis close again. “Talk to me.”_

_Regis’ breath hitches. He is shivering, and Geralt rubs circles to his back. Without thinking, he kisses Regis’ hair. It smells familiar, and doing so makes a soft warmth bloom inside him._

_He has wanted to kiss Regis for such a long time._

_The thought comes and goes, and Geralt carefully tilts Regis’ face back up. The vampire sucks in a frantic breath when their eyes meet, but he doesn’t resist. Geralt cups his face. He burns up with the feeling he has tried to shove away for so long._

_“It’s alright,” Geralt says. “Just stay with me.”_

_Regis nods without thinking. Then he grimaces._

_“I want to.”_

_“So what’s the problem?” Geralt smiles. He knows nothing is ever simple, but right now he dares to believe. Whatever this is, he wants to keep it. He doesn’t understand what is happening, but it’s the best feeling in a long, long while._

_Regis interrupts him with a light kiss. It’s just a press of lips, but when he breathes out a shaky exhale Geralt chases it. He hugs Regis closer, and the vampire doesn’t resist at all. It shouldn’t be so easy, but it feels like they have known this side of each other for ages already._

_Geralt parts his lips, and Regis tastes him with a breathy, disbelieving laugh. Their hands have abandoned gripping each other and are now stroking and caressing, and that, too, feels like it should have happened ages ago._

_Regis is safe, and Geralt knows he has wanted to do this for so long._

_He moves to kiss Regis’ neck, and the vampire tilts his head back. His breaths come uneven, but there is a delicious small smile on his lips. When he finally manages to pry his eyes open, they’re no longer heavy with worry._

_“Bed?” Geralt asks, feeling giddy with a new kind of happiness. He had always known kissing Regis would be good, and now he has it. And while he allows himself to be greedy, he decides he wants the rest of the vampire as well. His vampire._

_Regis laughs. He surges right back into another kiss, and Geralt arches into him. He is growing hard, and Regis isn’t far behind him. It feels so right. He has a few seconds to reflect on why they took so damn long to get here, but then his shins collide with the bed and they go down in a heap. More laughter spills out, and Geralt wonders if he has ever laughed in bed before. This doesn’t feel serious or fateful, only precious._

_Regis’ licks his neck, and Geralt struggles to maintain enough coherence to tug away at clothing that so rudely hinders his exploration. Regis straddles his hips with a happy grin and works his tunic open, one button at a time, and Geralt strokes his fingers over every inch of revealed skin. Regis burns under his fingers, and his face is so wondering it makes Geralt’s heart beat faster._

_Regis steadies himself, and then his tunic falls away. His hands are soft, lacking calluses Geralt has, and they hold on to Geralt’s hips. There is a root of a movement, and Geralt sucks in a breath. Regis’ smile grows wide and mischievous, and then he rolls his hips._

_“Oh, gods,” Geralt bites out. His head never loses the hazy, pleasant feeling he has sunk into, but pleasure is thrumming through him, heartbeats counting out the moments before it simply must become too much._

_It doesn’t become too much, but Geralt discovers he is starving for the sight of Regis’ biting his lip and closing his eyes as he keeps thrusting against him, the fabric of their trousers catching together. Regis’ breathing grows unsteady, and the smell of arousal rises off his skin. Geralt strains and sits up, bringing them flush together, and they kiss, tongues rubbing and licking, teeth occasionally clicking together because it’s not enough—_

_Geralt rolls them around, and before he has a chance to think about it, he tugs the remaining clothes off. His fingers still when he reaches for Regis’, but the vampire laughs and helps him, fingers trembling and urgent. And then they come together, all heat and hazy lust, and Geralt doesn’t care that he has only ever fucked women before. Regis was always the outlier, the one he wondered about, secretly hoping that the vampire would notice his furtive glances; something he didn’t allow for himself, not back then or after Regis returned, because it was improbable, and he dreaded the morass of his feelings and how they didn’t carry his weight. But now something has changed the rules, and he dares. Regis was, and is, safe, and he is the biggest regret Geralt has ever had._

_Was, he tells himself, tasting the past tense. Because now Regis is alive and under him, and his strong fingers are gripping his waist as Geralt brings their cocks together and wraps a hand around them both. Regis sighs and his hips cant up, and Geralt kisses him again. He moves his hand slowly, slowly, and feels pleasure build. Regis kisses back, demanding, and Geralt smiles into it._

_“I have wanted this,” Geralt whispers. His hands tightens, and Regis makes a sound that is almost a growl. It’s not threatening; rather it borders on needy._

_“I didn’t know—” Regis begins, but then catches himself and looks almost embarrassed. It crumbles away when Geralt begins to stroke them both, hips trying to find a rhythm. It’s awkward and messy, and most of all it’s glorious. Regis’ eyes are enormous, and he looks like he is struggling to believe what he sees._

_“I still don’t know what’s real,” he gasps, just when Geralt drags the pad of his thumb over the leaking head, and his breath rushes out in an unsteady woosh. His fingers are once again leaving bruises._

_“I don’t care,” Geralt pants. He doesn’t. Or more like he doesn’t want to care, because if this isn’t real then he doesn’t know how he is supposed to go back to just wanting everything he has now._

_“Will you stay with me?” Regis asks. His voice is tight and every muscle is pulled taut, release hovering in the impending seconds. “Will you stop going away?”_

_Geralt realizes, with a jolt, that he has heard those words before. Not the exact wording, but from some deep place comes an echo._

_It’s cold, only in passing, but his heart lurches. Regis’ voice, muted and distorted as if in a dream, and the words, “I couldn’t stop you from going away.”_

_Their eyes lock, but all movement stills. Geralt remembers that something is—weird. Not where it is supposed to be. Regis’ eyes widen and he gasps, this time not because of pleasure._

_“Is this real?” Geralt slowly asks. He blinks, but the haze never lifts. He still feels safe, still wants to hold Regis close, but he feels like he is missing something._

_Regis’ mouth moves, trying out words that never make it to sounds, and there is something alarmed growing behind his gaze._

_The bed gives way, and Geralt falls. Solid surface just ceases to be, and tumbles through something dark and confusing._

***

Geralt opens his eyes. It takes him a long time to realize he is in his bedroom. It’s night, and a cool breeze coming through the open window touches his feverish skin. He is panting, and his skin is covered in a sheen of sweat. He tries to make sense of why his head is spinning, is he sick, did the wounds infect—

He is hard. It’s already fading away, but a tight knot of arousal inside his stomach stays, and the sweat on his skin is not the cold clamminess of fever. He is burning up, his heart is racing, because… 

He doesn’t know why. There is something, just out of reach when he closes his eyes again. He tries to grope for some sense in the murk, but only remembers sunshine. There was a...house? Someplace that felt like an adventure and a refuge at the same time. And someone. 

_Spring,_ Geralt thinks dully. _It was spring._

It takes him a long time to fall back asleep. 

***

He heals. It goes much better than he expects, too: his body knits itself back together almost like it had done when the waters of Brokilon were washing over his shattered knee. Only this time Geralt isn’t in Brokilon, looked after by Éithne and a fretting Dandelion, but in his home. Mostly solitary, because he doesn’t wish to talk with anyone.

Well, it is a lie. He wants to talk to Regis, but the vampire is avoiding him.

Anna Henrietta drags him to the palace when Geralt is able to walk a few steps. He is taken there in a fine carriage, and is surprised to find no grand courtly event waiting for him. There is only Anarietta and her ladies in waiting, the flock of them standing a respectful distance away with the ducal guard. Damien catches Geralt’s eye and smiles, but Anna Henrietta is angry.

“I do not know what happened, witcher,” she says very quietly. Her hair is in an elaborate updo, pearls glimmering in it. Her dress is a shade of light blue, with birds embroidered into the bodice. They are sitting down, because Geralt isn’t in any condition to stand in ceremony. 

“I don’t know how you sneaked my sister out from the palace, but because everyone,” she glances at the guards and the women, “seems to think we were both in this ploy, I won’t dig further. For now.” She nails him down with her angry stare, and Geralt forgets to blink. He wonders what exactly Regis has told everyone.

“I would have wanted to question Regis, but he is rather...elusive, at the moment,” Anarietta goes on. She looks at Geralt like the vampire’s ability to avoid human messengers is somehow his fault. “The Beast is dead, and for that you will be awarded the promised price, but you’d do well to keep out of trouble.”

Geralt would give anything to tell her exactly how much he wishes to do so, but he only nods. He knows Anarietta won’t let the matter rest, but for now it appears he can breathe.

The carriage takes him back, and Geralt nurses a faint hope Regis will pay him a visit. Lying in bed is dreadfully boring without anyone to talk with, and even with B.B. playing Gwent with him he soon grows bored and irritated.

Regis is nowhere to be found. Geralt can’t send anyone to the cemetery, because the place must be full of archespores in August. He curses the vampire’s choice of home on more than one occasion, because he knows something isn’t normal.

He is healing too fast. It alarms him, and he refuses to let anyone see the wounds as soon as he is able to change the bandages by himself. By then it is evident there will be much less scarring than should be possible. He won’t walk away without a solid reminder that Dettlaff ran his claws through his chest, but it won’t look like he has been sewn together from sheer pulp.

Usually he avoids looking at the healing parts, because nausea crawls up his throat when he does, and something that feels dark and too big creeps closer, but one evening he forces the unnamed dread away. He sits at the edge of his bed and unwraps the linen, movements brisk and mechanic. He forces his breathing into a slow and even rhythm, even when he only wants to look away, and avoid touching the doubt.

His fingers ghost over his chest, and then they feel the healing skin. Bumps of scar tissue make acid rise to his throat, but Geralt swallows harshly and goes on. Distantly he wonders why he is so reluctant to do this. The only answer he gets is the same seething mass of blackness that he encounters every time he tries to think about the night when he—

His inspection tells him what he had suspected; his lungs shouldn’t be there any longer. The angle of the deathblow is too precise, the claws must have done too much damage.

He should be dead.

Geralt pulls his hands away like he’s been burned, and then hastily dresses the wound. His hands are shaking, and he fears he might vomit. His heart picks up its pace, until the beat is echoing through his skull, and still he can do nothing but sit there, forcing air into his lungs that should have been torn to shreds but which instead work just fine.

“Regis, what did you do?” Geralt rasps, but no one answers him.

***

_The house is familiar, but it is empty. Night is gentle this time, the cool air smelling of autumn and harvest. Geralt spends a long time standing in what he thinks is a bedroom, just listening. He hears birdsong and wind, but there is an absence he feels too keenly. He shouldn’t be here alone._

_He walks into another room, and another, and another. Doors open without a sound, and his bare feet feel the cool hardwood floor distantly, as if in a dream. Geralt looks at the foreign rooms, and the nagging feeling that he is missing something obvious is there._

_“Where are you?” he asks. The house feels like it is holding its breath, hiding something from view, but no matter how long he waits, it never becomes any more clear._

_He ends up back in the bedroom, not entirely sure the layout of the house makes any kind of sense. It doesn’t matter. He is alone here, and it’s not how it is supposed to be. Geralt lies down and curls onto his side. Half of the bed is empty, when someone else should be there with him._

***

Geralt decides he is healthy enough to ride to the cemetery when he just can’t take it any longer. There is no word from Regis, and Geralt fears he might go crazy if he doesn’t get the answers he needs. He misses Regis, in a chaotic and irritated way.

B.B. follows him all the way to the stables, muttering a steady string of worries and warnings, trying to assure Geralt that he can get a hold of the barber-surgeon, and that Geralt isn’t in any condition to ride out. It is touching, how much his majordomo cares, but Geralt can’t take a single night more with those confusing dreams.

He remembers flashes of a house. It’s always night when he is there, and he keeps wandering rooms he can’t recall when he wakes up. The only certain thing is a persistent, sad certainty that something is missing, and it makes him ache. Somehow he knows the dreams are connected to Regis, and he wants—no, needs to find his friend and get to the bottom of this.

Roach steps carefully, and Geralt lets her pick the pace. His chest is aching, but it’s not as bad as it could be. He is dressed in his light armor, because buckling into a heavier set wasn’t possible when his movements were still limited by flashes of red pain when he tried to lift his arms. Geralt rides and hopes he gets lucky, and the archespores have decided to populate some other nook of the abandoned cemetery after he carved his way through them earlier in the summer.

A bit later he knows it’s most likely wistful thinking. He dismounts and ties Roach to a tree much closer to the crypt than usual. He is out of breath and his chest is full of splinters, forcing his diaphragm to move cautiously when he wants to suck in huge gulps of air. Sunlight beats him down, even through the canopy, and the cemetery is alive with the sounds of insects and birds.

“Regis?” Geralt tries to call out, but his voice is faint even to his own ears. He tugs at his sword belt as he starts to walk slowly towards the crypt. The belt never bothers him, but now it’s weight presses right against the wound, and every movement plays out new discordant notes of pain which then mix into the general cacophony of agony.

He doesn’t see, or hear the attack when it comes. One moment he is looking at the crypt door, and feels a slight despair when he sees the heavy padlock, and the next the ground explodes under his feet and he goes flying as the archespore rushes at him, brightly colored petals flaring in a rainbow snarl and a smell of rot.

He lands without any semblance of grace, hitting a gravestone, and the impact knocks the breath out his lungs. Geralt tries to hang on to the cool mindset he uses when he fights, but it’s too much; he is hurting too much, he isn’t in any condition to fight, and what drove him here wasn’t born out of sense but a clawing desperation to find answers to what happened to him, to find _Regis_.

The archespore pumps the bellows under its maw, and veers towards him. Geralt has just enough time to cover his face when the poison bursts from the hollow middle of the plant, and he shouts in agony as it spatters him. It burns and stings, being somehow both hot and cold at the same time, and only distantly Geralt hears a shout.

He tries to wipe the poison away, keeping his eyes closed, but it’s _everywhere_ and it hurts, and his chest is feeling wet and broken under the armor.

Someone hauls him up with no regard to the pain he is in. There is no grunt of effort, no faltering feet under his weight, and Geralt does his best to hang onto his sanity as world sways and tilts. Sunlight disappears and the air grows cool and moist, but he is too preoccupied with the poison eating at his skin to make note.

“No, no no no,” someone says, prays, under his breath. Fingers starts to unbuckle his armor heedless of the poison he is covered in, and Geralt is suddenly aware of how wet and rasping his breaths sound. His skin is on fire where it wasn’t covered with leather and maille, but underneath them he is hot and slick.

“Please, _no_ , not now, not like this,” the voice says, coming from much further away. The world takes several steps back and then halts, as if unsure whether Geralt needs to stay here or depart. The pain never lessens, but at some point Geralt gives up trying to make sense of it. It’s not his concern. He can’t do anything about it, so best let it eat him.

“Did I find you?” he forces out. His voice is distant and faint.

A hysterical laughter escapes Regis, because who else could it be? Something wet starts washing over him, and the sting of the poison fades where it touches, leaving only numbness in its wake.

“You should have stayed away.”

“Can’t,” Geralt mumbles. His tongue feels heavy. He is lying on a flat, hard surface, and even as the poison is being washed from his skin his chest hurts more and more. He must have hit the gravestone pretty hard.

Regis’ breath hitches. “I wanted—” He draws in a shaky breath, fingers trembling where he rips the undershirt off. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

Geralt hums, but he can’t breathe properly. His lungs are burning, but drawing in more air _hurts_. He tries to open his eyes, but everything is a chaos of flame light and darkness, and he closes them again to force the nausea back. Everything is spinning on an unsteady tip, and it feels like his surroundings will topple over any second.

The house flickers behind his eyelids. It’s always there, he thinks. He can always go back. He wants to go back, but only if Regis will join him again.

He remembers something that drives a small smile on his lips.

“You were there too,” he whispers. He sees the threshold, and it makes so much sense; of course Regis was there with him.

“Don’t talk,” Regis says, his voice tight.

“You were there with me,” Geralt repeats. “We were—together.”

“No. Please.”

Geralt wants to argue. He wants to drive away the sheer misery that clings to Regis’ voice, but he can’t breathe, and then he is gone, and the pain is finally gone too.

***

_He doesn’t want to open his eyes. He is lying on the bed, and someone is holding him. Strong, wiry arms hold him in place, and breaths tickle the nape of his neck._

_“Don’t go,” Regis whispers. He sounds half-asleep. He presses a slow kiss to Geralt’s neck._

_Geralt feels every inch where they touch, skin against skin. Everything is soft and comfortable, and Regis is breathing him in while tightening his arms possessively. It’s the happiest he can remember feeling._

_“Okay,” Geralt murmurs. “I’m here.”_

_Regis huffs a faint laugh, and presses another kiss to his skin, this one with an open mouth and a scrape of teeth. Geralt shivers, and his hand reaches back until he can hold Regis’ thigh as they rock together. It’s lazy; they have all the time in this not-world._

_“I always wanted this,” Regis says quietly, breath catching as heat builds. “I have never wanted anything but this.”_

_Geralt smiles. It’s carefree, something that feels almost foreign._

_“This?” he teases, and Regis snorts, biting the meat of his shoulder. Geralt gasps, and that moment Regis’ hand wraps around his erection. The vampire strokes light and careful, not giving him enough friction. His own hardness is nestled between Geralt’s buttocks, and the touch is maddening._

_“You,” Regis says in a rough voice. His fingers explore, and Geralt presses firmly against him, wishing he could see Regis’ face. The haze is lifting, and heat is pooling in his stomach. He wants Regis to fuck him, claim him._

_“I’m here,” Geralt says, a soft keen escaping his mouth when Regis thrusts._

_“This is something I could never have.”_

_Geralt goes still. He blinks, and then he turns over before Regis can hold him down. Their eyes meet for a second, and then Regis kisses him. Geralt’s lips part, and it’s too good. He knows he is burning up, and he wants to keep this. He wants to have this, but not only in this place. Understanding sparks slowly as they kiss, and he smiles in relief as he begins to figure it out._

_“You have me, I want you too,” he says before he has time to think about the words. They feel too real when they fall between them, and all movement stops._

_Geralt and Regis stare at each other, hands still clinging and feet tangled, but something shifts. The room around them gains substance, and Geralt distantly thinks it looks more familiar now._

_“You’re here too,” Regis says. His voice is so small it’s almost not there. His eyes are enormous and too many emotions try to gain control of his face. Dread wins out. “I didn’t think—”_

_“Regis?” Geralt asks. The haze is gone. He feels awake. He feels Regis where the vampire clings to him, but it’s stiff now._

_“Yes,” Regis whispers. He makes a move to pull away, but Geralt won’t let him. He holds on, and Regis slumps down after a short struggle. Geralt doesn’t know whether the vampire just humors him, or if something is different about this...place._

_“Is this real?” Geralt asks._

_Regis closes his eyes. He is biting his lip hard._

_“I don’t know. I didn’t think it was,” he forces out. “I didn’t even remember these dreams until—”_

_“Until last time,” Geralt finishes, and Regis tries to pull away again. Geralt doesn’t let him, until it occurs to him that maybe Regis doesn’t want Geralt to touch him when they’re so compromised. He releases his grip, and Regis sits up, tugging a sheet to cover himself. He looks like he might cry, almost._

_“I’m so sorry,” Regis says. He refuses to meet Geralt’s eye. “I didn’t know, I didn’t think. I thought it was just me.”_

_“What is this? What happened?” Geralt asks. He looks around, and the room shifts minutely as his gaze jumps from the walls to the floor and then to the window. It’s still not familiar, per se, but he has a feeling he should know this place._

_“This is a dream,” Regis says. His fingers fidget with the edge of the sheet. “A dreamscape, deep in the subconscious. It’s a place to heal.”_

_“Home,” Geralt says without thinking. A memory surfaces, unclear but familiar: Regis saying the word and smiling._

_Regis shrugs. “I don’t know. You shouldn’t be here. It shouldn’t be possible.”_

_Geralt waits, but nothing follows. Regis’ fingers move restlessly, and when they get too agitated Geralt simply covers them with his palm. Regis’ eyes snap up, and Geralt feels with absolute certainty that he wants to be here. Furthermore, he wants things to go back the way they were._

_He wants to kiss Regis. He only got to know how it feels, and he doesn’t want to give it up, not when his chest grows tight at the possibility that this isn’t just a dream._

_“What does it mean that I am here?” Geralt asks._

_Regis looks away. “Something went wrong.” There are tears in his voice._

_Geralt waits again as Regis struggles to maintain control. The vampire looks so guilty and sad, and Geralt want to wrap him up in a hug and hold him until it gets better again. And then, abruptly, he remembers._

_Regis holding him and crying. The air whistling through his shredded lungs. Numb, numb from the chest down, and the only thing that matters is that he needs to let Regis know he is—_

_“I died.” It comes out soft and certain, and Regis chokes on the word “yes” when he buries his face in his hands._

_The world twists, and vertigo blurs the colors._

***

Geralt wakes with a jolt. His chest hurts, but when he goes still to wait for the assault of debilitating agony, it never comes. He lies on the thin mattress, breathing evenly, until his brain wakes up enough to believe that he isn’t dead or actively dying. 

Geralt carefully sits up, and groans. He barely has the time to register the familiar crypt around him, or that he is naked under the thin sheet covering him, when a hand lands on his shoulder.

Regis looks at him with a desperate expression. It’s more open than any face Geralt has seen him make, and it brings them to a halt. They look at each other, breaths mingling, and the only sound is the soft hissing of the oil lamps. Regis’ hair is in disarray, and he looks like he is struggling to wake up all the way.

“Please don’t move,” Regis whispers. “You almost died.”

Geralt sits up, and Regis kneels by the makeshift bed, hand still clutching his shoulder. Geralt catalogues how he feels, and concludes that by all accounts it should be a hundred times worse. He looks down at his hands, and expects to see chemical burns and wounds. Instead, his hands look perfectly fine.

“How long was I out?” he asks. His voice is hoarse and he starts coughing. Regis passes him a waterskin, and Geralt drinks slowly, savoring the cool liquid as it soothes his throat.

Regis accepts the skin back and turns it in his hands. “Almost a full day.” His sharp fingernail almost pokes a hole into the leather, and without thinking Geralt takes his hand. Regis looks at him with an alarmed expression.

“Why am I not covered in acid burns?” Geralt asks. He keeps his voice low, and winds their fingers together. It’s easier to accept the reality if he touches Regis, it seems. Or maybe he just wants to make sure the vampire doesn’t run away.

Regis’ lips move for a while and then he exhales shakily. It looks almost like he is preparing for a fight, the way his muscles grow tight and trembling.

“Because they healed already,” he says in a faint voice. He blinks rapidly.

“How is that possible?” Geralt finds he isn’t really struggling to believe it. He remembers the acid burning his skin all too well. It falls in line with the way his chest has been healing, so maybe there is an explanation to this after all.

Regis bites his lip. He looks like regret will crush him at any moment, and when Geralt places his fingers under his chin and lifts it to make the vampire meet his gaze, Regis closes his eyes. He is shaking.

“You died,” Regis whispers. “And I did something inadvisable. Wrong.”

Geralt waits until Regis opens his eyes again. They are glistening in the faint light. 

_He wants to kiss Regis._

“I did what my people do when a—a loved one dies,” Regis chokes out. A few tears spill over and he pulls away from Geralt’s touch. His hands clench into fists. “It’s messy and complicated, and I broke all the rules when I did it. It wasn’t supposed to work.”

Geralt blinks. He tries to wrap his brain around the new information, but his head feels dull and heavy.

Regis looks at him with a mask of shame over his features. “It wasn’t supposed to work,” he repeats. “The ritual is used to save a cherished soul and allow them to heal back over time, and…” His voice fades away as the panic crests, and Geralt moves without thinking. Air itself feels jagged and unpleasant.

He drags Regis close, ignoring the startled gasp, and then holds him until he grows slack and starts heaving with suppressed sobs.

“You came back and started to heal, and I didn’t know what to do,” Regis says, words stumbling out. “I didn’t even know whether the one who came back was _you_ , or someone else, I had no idea we were similar enough for there to be a _chance_ for it to work.” He gasps, and Geralt buries his face into Regis’ hair. It smells of cinnamon; familiar, just like in the dreams. But this is real and it’s somehow more.

Regis is shaking in earnest now. His face is hidden from view, but he isn’t trying to pull away, and Geralt strokes his back as he tries to understand.

“So you did something, and it worked differently than you thought?” he asks.

“It wasn’t supposed to work at all!” Regis says, louder and more terrified. He looks up with a lost expression. It makes Geralt’s chest feel tight.

“Didn’t you want it to?” he asks before he can think of a better way to put it. His own distress bleeds into it, and Regis’ mouth falls open when he hears it. The silence that follows is deafening, the two of them locked inside the raging maelstrom of confusion and mutual hurt.

“I don’t know what those dreams really were, but I was happy in them,” Geralt finally forces himself to say. He tries to think back, and more and more details trickle back into lucid memory. They form complete pictures, and his gut twinges. He wants them to be _real_. He is so afraid Regis will hate him for whatever has happened to them.

Because he really was happy in the dreamscape. Admitting it feels colossal, and he can’t even make any sense of this; the only thing that feels certain is the budding feeling inside his chest, and how much acknowledging it terrifies him. It’s unlike anything he can find a name for.

“I never dared to hope,” Regis whispers, startling Geralt. Regis sits back and rubs a hand down his face. “So I pushed it away. But when Dettlaff… When you were dying, I didn’t think. I didn’t think at all.”

Another silence falls, this one softer, and Geralt finally gives in. He lets his hand slip to the back of Regis’ neck, and leans closer. It’s slow, but Regis only blinks frantically, and then their lips are almost touching, hovering. Geralt burns with what the dreams have already given him, and then Regis draws in a breath and leans in.

The world rights itself, and relief feels like finally taking off chafing clothes. Geralt is pressed against the wall, with Regis holding him carefully, but the vampire kisses him with abandon, with stuttering breaths and half-formed words spilling over. Geralt buries his hands into Regis’ hair, and Regis straddles him, until they are flush together and panting.

It’s better than in the dreams. Geralt opens his eyes and sees Regis watching him in wonder. Guilt is still there, along with fear, but underneath is a fierce look Geralt doesn’t dare to name yet. They allow the kiss to become two, three, until they merge together in a chaotic array of reassurance and relief. It’s not even about lust this time, because Geralt wants to be absolutely certain he isn’t dreaming, and that he isn’t alone with the feelings he has nursed for several uncomfortable years.

“What is this?” he asks, when he comes up for breath and realizes his hands have drifted under Regis’ shirt and are stroking bare skin. The vampire arches into it, ever mindful of his wounds. Geralt feels goosebumps under his fingertips.

“This is me being hopeful,” Regis says. He manages a sad smile as his hands cup Geralt’s face. “I never dared to hope. I didn’t even entertain the wish that this might be something mutual. And then the worst happened and I had so many things I wanted to tell you.” He looks almost disbelieving as he strings the words together, but hearing them makes warmth unfurl inside Geralt.

“I think I’ve been in love with you for a while,” Geralt says, trying out the sentiment. He’s only ever said it a few times before in his life. It’s something that’s messy and impractical, and most of all improbable. Much like his friendship with Regis.

Regis’ face breaks into a smile. He kisses Geralt again, with purpose, and Geralt lets him. He’s more than happy to be exactly where he is, even with all of the unanswered questions still hanging over his head. 

Geralt sucks at Regis’ bottom lip, and the gasp he gets in return crawls straight under his skin, burning deliciously as it goes. It so much more now, and feeling it with a certainty that he is awake and coherent transforms it into a thing he dares to believe in.

Regis’ hands wander down his chest, fingers teasing, until it becomes too much. Geralt grips him and grinds, and as pleasure slams into both of them, he wonders at how much more intense it feels. Geralt has had plenty of sex, and it has never felt like his mind was struggling to contain the enormity of the act.

Regis leans lower, and sucks on his neck. Geralt’s back arches and he bites back a moan. As Geralt tugs at Regis’ clothes he suddenly vanishes, and then materializes again on top of him, bringing them both gently down onto the mattress.

Regis runs hot, and he is so real. Geralt grins up at him as he opens his legs wide, and Regis settles between them with a burst of laughter. Hearing it drags up another memory from the dreamscape, the sounds Regis makes when he’s happy, and Geralt wants to hear them all here, too. It is a cherished connection, one they have just started to build.

“It feels different,” Geralt finally manages to say a while later. Regis looks up from where his fingers are deft at work, teasing moans and shudders out from the witcher. It’s new, but by gods Geralt can’t figure out why it took them this long to do this. “This whole thing,” Geralt clarifies, struggling to remember how words work when Regis curls his fingers.

“It does,” the vampire agrees. He leans in for a kiss, and pushes deeper at the same time. Geralt keens into his mouth, trying to kiss back but mostly just observing all coherent thoughts as they evaporate.

“Are you gonna stay now?” Geralt asks, again without thinking. He is wound up so tight already, and this feels better than he ever imagined. Regis slowly pushes into him, and leans as close as possible, kissing Geralt with all the care in the world. Geralt tries to think of a word to describe the way Regis kisses him, but his brain comes up short; mostly because it’s full of sparkling lights and raw happiness.

“I adore you,” Regis whispers. He starts to move, and Geralt hangs on, legs rising in the air as he pushes into it to meet the thrusts. It is too much, too intimate, and he can’t get close enough.

“I have adored you almost from the moment we met,” Regis goes on. His eyes are intense but dry, and he is smiling. It’s almost disbelieving, but when Geralt looks up and tightens around him, he laughs again, light and happy.

Regis chooses that moment to grip his cock and start stroking, and Geralt is swept away as the tension crests. It comes crashing down, his breaths chasing the air between them, and he spills himself and Regis holds him through it all.

***

_Regis watches Geralt sleep. They are lying in bed, close and touching. Geralt is still healing from everything, and all the rest he can get will help him get his strength back. Regis strokes his hair, and the witcher sleeps on, head on his chest and the heavy weight of his arm thrown over him._

_Regis allows it to ground him as he closes his eyes. Guilt is still lurking just behind the corner, because he knows he did something forbidden. No one knows how it will turn out, or how other vampires will react when they find out. And they will find out, because something is changing, and he fears looking at it too closely._

_Regis reflects on the sheer stupidity of his actions. He was panicking, absolutely blinded by the prospect of losing Geralt, and as a result he isn’t entirely sure what it is he has done. The memory is a seething mass of horror and shadows, blurring into a chaotic mess of blood and whispered promises. Realizing and acknowledging that he is in love with the witcher is one thing, but to do it at the moment of death lends weight to extraordinarily desperate measures._

_Regis remembers waking up, bloody and bruised. He remembers the crushing sorrow, and how it was chased away when he saw Geralt was somehow breathing again. It went through him like a bolt of lightning, and the next hours were once more a patchwork of panic and blind rushing to_ keep _the witcher breathing. He isn’t sure how he managed it, but the proof is in his arms._

_And ultimately he can’t regret everything. Regis tightens his hold, because he still doesn’t entirely believe how it unfolded. For a while Regis thought his subconscious had simply cracked under the weight of what he had tried to deny. When he first started to fear Geralt in the dreams wasn’t a figment of his imagination, Regis felt nauseous. He feared he was doing it against Geralt’s will, muddling his mind with his influence._

_And then he tried to pull away altogether. He needed space to think, to figure out what to do, but the witcher was confused too. Seeing him again was like a physical blow, because Regis knew then he was in love, and that he couldn’t lose Geralt. He had already proven it to himself, and then he did it again, this time for both of them._

_Geralt makes a faint noise as he wakes up, and Regis smiles. He knows he’s made a mess of things, but for some reason the witcher is inclined to forgive him. It’s almost too much to believe. It’s a comforting, soft feeling; it makes Regis think of late spring, and the smell of wildflowers._

_“We’re here again,” Geralt says in a sleep-rough voice. Regis waits for him to pull away, but they stay there._

_“Yes,” he says. “This is a place where you heal.” Regis hesitates, and then runs his fingers through the white hair. Geralt makes a happy sound and turns his face to his neck, nose brushing Regis’ pulse._

_“Why’d you call it home?”_

_Regis frowns as he thinks back. The first dreams are hazy now, overlaid with guilt when he woke up gasping and hard, terrified and burning up with sheer need to fly to the witcher and claim him._

_“It just feels like home,” Regis says. It’s inadequate, but the house isn’t a place from the waking world, and yet it feels so familiar._

_Geralt hums in agreement. “Is it because we’re here together?”_

_Oh._

_Regis blinks, and then his mouth opens. He distantly feels his chest rise and fall as he breathes, but he is far away._

_It can’t be. No matter how many vampire mutagens the masters of Kaer Morhen pumped into Geralt’s body, it shouldn’t be possible for them to connect so deeply. And at the same time Regis knows it’s the obvious, simple solution. No matter how unlikely it feels._

_“Regis?” Geralt asks. The witcher twists up and looks at him, and Regis stares back helplessly. He knows he won’t be unable to lie his way out of this, but oh, how little he wants to have this discussion._

_He feels it. What’s more, Regis can tell Geralt feels it. They are in perfect sync._

_“Tell me,” Geralt says. He doesn’t move away, but Regis feels the apprehension. It tastes like bitter tea at the back of his tongue. There is a color and shape to the feeling, greenish yellow and sharpening edges. Geralt’s hands lays over Regis’ heart, and then the first spark of understanding appears in his eyes (sour, but not unpleasantly so, like lemon syrup. Regis licks his lips, half-expecting to taste the stickiness.)_

_Their souls have aligned, and because that just isn’t complicated enough, they have been wound together because of what Regis did._

_“I fear you are stuck with me,” Regis whispers._

**Author's Note:**

> _"What is the potential in the idea of the built dwelling or built structure as a metaphor for the self? In western culture, the metaphor of the house to evoke the human psyche has been persistent, ever since the psychologist C. G. Jung suggested it in the early twentieth century. For me as a visual artist, it has meant exploring those aspects of built structure which are complex, overlapping and ambiguous: there may be facades, but behind these are all kinds of different rooms, stairs and corridors, ways around and through, areas revealed and areas concealed. There is always the potential for endlessly more."_   
>  [The built dwelling or built structure as a metaphor for the self – Helen Scalway](https://cliffcrawfordart.co.uk/a-metaphor-for-self/)


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